SIMONE [_turning round_]. Who spake of Death? Let no one speak of Death. What should Death do in such a merry house, With but a wife, a husband, and a friend To give it greeting? Let Death go to houses Where there are vile, adulterous things, chaste wives Who growing weary of their noble lords Draw back the curtains of their marriage beds, And in polluted and dishonoured sheets Feed some unlawful lust. Ay! ’tis so Strange, and yet so. _You_ do not know the world. _You_ are too single and too honourable. I know it well. And would it were not so, But wisdom comes with winters. My hair grows grey, And youth has left my body. Enough of that. To-night is ripe for pleasure, and indeed, I would be merry as beseems a host Who finds a gracious and unlooked-for guest Waiting to greet him. [_Takes up a lute_.] But what is this, my lord? Why, you have brought a lute to play to us. Oh! play, sweet Prince. And, if I am too bold, Pardon, but play. GUIDO. I will not play to-night. Some other night, Simone. [_To_ BIANCA] You and I Together, with no listeners but the stars, Or the more jealous moon. SIMONE. Nay, but my lord! Nay, but I do beseech you. For I have heard That by the simple fingering of a string, Or delicate breath breathed along hollowed reeds, Or blown into cold mouths of cunning bronze, Those who are curious in this art can draw Poor souls from prison-houses. I have heard also How such strange magic lurks within these shells That at their bidding casements open wide And Innocence puts vine-leaves in her hair, And wantons like a mænad. Let that pass. Your lute I know is chaste. And therefore play: Ravish my ears with some sweet melody; My soul is in a prison-house, and needs Music to cure its madness. Good Bianca, Entreat our guest to play. BIANCA. Be not afraid, Our well-loved guest will choose his place and moment: That moment is not now. You weary him With your uncouth insistence. GUIDO. Honest Simone, Some other night. To-night I am content With the low music of Bianca’s voice, Who, when she speaks, charms the too amorous air, And makes the reeling earth stand still, or fix His cycle round her beauty. SIMONE. You flatter her. She has her virtues as most women have, But beauty in a gem she may not wear. It is better so, perchance. Well, my dear lord, If you will not draw melodies from your lute To charm my moody and o’er-troubled soul You’ll drink with me at least? [_Motioning_ GUIDO _to his own place_.] Your place is laid. Fetch me a stool, Bianca. Close the shutters. Set the great bar across. I would not have The curious world with its small prying eyes To peer upon our pleasure. Now, my lord, Give us a toast from a full brimming cup.